Five Times Abbie Explained That Ichabod Is Married
by audreyii-fic
Summary: ...and one time she reminded herself. Abbie's not sure how it fell to her to tell everyone about Crane's two-hundred-years-dead witch-wife, but these things happen. (Post-John Doe.)


_**A/N**: I swore I wasn't going to 'ship this pairing. Swore. But the fangirl heart wants what the fangirl heart wants._

* * *

___ **Five Times Abbie Explained That Ichabod Is Married  
**(and one time she reminded herself)_

* * *

_ **1.** _

When Wendy asks if Crane is single Abbie tells her about _Mrs._ Crane, to whom the Englishman is devoted. _Very _devoted. Doesn't-even-glance-at-other-women devoted. So _completely_ devoted that-

"All right, all right, I get it," says Wendy. "Figured it wouldn't hurt to ask." And she doesn't bring it up again.

Good. The last thing Abbie needs is the receptionist making moon eyes at her fellow Witness and confusing the hell out of him. It would probably lead to some damn conversation about the nature of modern male-female interactions which would lead to an explanation of women's lib and then she'd have to find him a copy of _The Feminine Mystique_ and then he'd want to know about what happened during the sixties and God she's got a headache already.

So, yeah, no.

Crane asks later if something's wrong with their charwoman. Abbie just shrugs.

* * *

_ **2.** _

_"By the way, watch yourself with Tall Dark and British. No good'll come of that."  
_

Abbie bites back a retort. Jenny's only just now willing to take her phone calls. She doesn't want to screw it up. "We're friends," she says. "He's married to a witch who's stuck in purgatory. He's not after anything with me."

_"I didn't say to watch **him**. I said to watch **yourself**."_

"It's not an issue. Drop it."

_"Whatever you say, sis."_

* * *

_ **3.** _

"You wanted to see me, Captain?"

"Close the door." Irving doesn't look up from the file on his desk. The headless horseman sign is tacked to the wall of his office; either he actually likes the joke or it's a deliberate _Fuck you_ to the rest of the department. Hard to say, really.

Abbie stands for four minutes - she knows, she watches the clock - before Irving sets down his papers and says bluntly: "So far, I have allowed you and Crane what can only be described as an _outrageous_ amount of leeway for your little projects."

"And we appreciate that, sir."

"The _only_ reason I am doing so is because there is an inverse correlation between the number of solved cases being cleared off my desk and the amount of antacids I have to take every morning." Irving levels one of those way-too-shrewd-for-a-new-guy looks at her, the one that makes Abbie suspect the captain knows way more than he's telling. "In short, Lieutenant, at the moment you and Crane are, surprisingly enough, _decreasing_ the amount of stress in my life. If you begin to _increase_ it, however, we are going to have a problem. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I've already talked to Morales-"

With that, the light dawns. "Wait a minute-"

"-and now I'm talking to you," Irving continues, overriding her protest. "Look, I could care less what you, he, and Crane get up to during your free time, separately _or_ together. But I will not have it spill over into my department."

"Sir, with all due respect, you have no authority over my personal life."

"You're right, I don't. But we both know Ichabod Crane is a consultant to the Sleepy Hollow PD in name only, and it _is_ within my authority to deny him access to casework and ban him from the building." His expression remains impassive as Abbie bites hard on the inside of her cheek. "I don't want to do that," he continues. "Crane is a pain in the ass, but he's useful. So don't force my hand. Keep your relationship out of the workplace."

There are flames on the side of Abbie's face, but she hasn't made it as far as she has in life by losing her composure in critical moments. She limits herself to: "Not that it is any of your business, but Crane has a wife."

"The one who died in the eighteenth century, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I'll have to remember to send them something nice for their two hundredth wedding anniversary. In the meantime, he can stop needling Morales at every opportunity."

"He doesn't needle Morales. They barely speak."

"Apparently you haven't noticed, Lieutenant, but Crane doesn't have to _speak_ to be aggravating."

"Then may I suggest you bring it up with him?"

"If he actually _did_ work for me, I would." Irving picks his folder up and flips to a new page. "Back to your cases, Lieutenant. We're finished here."

It takes everything Abbie has not to slam the door on her way out.

* * *

_** 4.** _

She corners Luke in the break room two days later. "We broke up," she tells him. "Break ups happen. Let it go."

He has the good grace to look embarrassed, but still says: "We were together for a long time, Abbie-"

"I wouldn't call it a _long time_."

"-and it's only been a month since we broke up-"

"You and I _both_ agreed it was for the best."

"-so, yeah, forgive me if I still care enough to worry when you hang out with a possible serial killer-"

"He was questioned about those murders, not charged."

"-who also spends all his time acting like he's going to piss on your leg to mark his territory."

"Seems to be a lot of that going around."

"Abbie-"

"_No._ I have worked _too hard_ to get to where I am, Luke, and if you do _anything_ to fuck it up, I swear to God you'll regret it. Is that in _any_ way unclear?"

Luke nods, and if he hadn't been such a jackass about this whole thing, Abbie might _almost_ feel a twinge over the hangdog look on his face. She's considering leaving him with some vaguely conciliatory comment when he shoots himself in the foot by saying: "Just be careful, Abbie. A guy like that probably has a girl back home."

He flinches back at her expression. "A wife, actually. And if the next words out of your mouth are that I'm having affair with a married man, I _will_ break your nose."

Luke very wisely says nothing.

When she storms to her desk to grab her coat, Crane glances over the top of his book (_Liberty's Dawn: A People's History of the Industrial Revolution_) and frowns. "Is everything all right, Lieutenant?"

"Don't talk to me," she snaps.

The rest of the afternoon is spent in the firing range. It doesn't make her feel better.

* * *

_ **5.** _

Abbie's debating the merits of regular versus steel-cut oatmeal (and deliberately ignoring the carrying sound of a ranting English accent) when an acne-riddled teenager in an employee uniform nervously sidles up to her. "Uh, ma'am, excuse me, but your husband-"

"He's not _my_ husband. He's got a wife, and it's not my fault she didn't smack some sense into him when she had the chance."

"Um, yes, ma'am, but, see, the thing is-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

An audience has formed next to the tower of Spaghetti-Os (two-for-one this week). "Succinic acid!" her wayward Witness shouts, waving a can in the face of a terrified woman clutching a three-year-old. "_Succinic acid!_ Why not just serve your child hemlock and be done with it?"

Abbie elbows her way through the crowd and snatches the Spaghetti-Os out of his hand. "All right, that's enough."

"Lieutenant. Thank God. This marketplace is foisting what can only be described as _laboratory experiments_ upon these ignorant townsfolk. We must bring charges at once."

"It's soup, Crane."

"_Soup?_ Have you not _read_ the list of ingredients upon this label? It is a never-ending source of bafflement to me that the human race has not driven itself to extinction in the last two centuries! I wouldn't be at all surprised to find belladonna in your salads and arsenic in your iced cream!"

The mother bursts into tears.

"There's some organic granola over in aisle six," one guy says helpfully.

"I am getting you a leash," Abbie tells Crane.

* * *

_ **1.** _

Sprained wrist, concussion, a few cracked ribs; given the state of the cruiser, Abbie's lucky to have walked away at all. But the thing they were fighting's now a spot on the pavement. It's not the way she would have _preferred_ to do it, but the bad guy is dead (uh, again) while she and Crane are alive. That counts as a win.

Probably it's the painkillers making her so mellow about the whole experience; if so, it'd be nice if the hospital would dose up Crane, too. He's done nothing but complain about everything from her IV to the halogen lights, and when Abbie points out that the entire process is a lot less invasive than what he went through with the Roanoke plague, he just humphs and declares that this is a completely different matter.

Finally Abbie tells him that if he wants to be useful, he can call Captain Irving and break the news about the car. (It's going to be an ugly conversation.) Crane heads out to the hall with Abbie's cell, which Abbie expects never to see again, much to the relief of the nurse who's been attempting to change her bandages for the last ten minutes.

"That's a helluva husband you've got there," says the nurse, smiling wryly as he adjusts the saline drip. "I'm dying of jealousy."

"He isn't-" But Abbie stops herself. The last thing they need is for Crane to get kicked out because he's not family. God only knows what he'd break trying to get back in. "He isn't that easy to live with," she says instead. "If I were you, I'd hold out for someone less... uh, complicated."

The nurse winks at her. "I'll take complicated if it comes with an accent like that," he says.

Abbie hums noncommittally and steers the conversation to how long it will be before she can get back to work.

Crane takes longer than she expected (long enough for her to wonder if her phone defeated him), but when he returns, it's with a bag of McDonald's hidden under his coat. "What they credit as a _meal_ in this hospital can hardly be deemed fit for human consumption," he informs her. "Smuggling seemed the most sensible solution to our quandry."

Abbie opens the bag and inhales deeply. McNuggets. Her favorite. "Thanks, honey," she says with a smirk.

Crane pauses halfway through emptying his pockets of sauce packets. He's brought at least ten. "I thought you favored the sweet-and-sour concoction," he says. "But if you prefer honey, I can certainly-"

"Sweet-and-sour's great," she says. "It was just a joke."

"Ah." Crane takes this at face value, inspects her IV, delivers a long-winded diatribe about medical savagery and how she's far more likely to suffer long-term damage from want of leeches than the injuries she's sustained, then declares that a concussed head cannot possibly be expected to heal with a single pillow and stalks off in search of more doctors to harass - but not before opening three packets of sauce for her so that she doesn't risk straining her injured wrist on the plastic.

After he's gone, Abbie stares at her dinner. It swims through a Percocet haze.

He's married. They're just McNuggets. Okay, McNuggets and sweet-and-sour sauce.

But still. McNuggets.

He's _extremely_ married.

Sort of.

She winds up with three pillows. And Irving's voicemail about the cruiser cuts out at the four minute mark.


End file.
